


go down to the netherworld; plant grapes

by monsterq



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety, Bucky Has a Day, Dogs, Flashbacks, Gen, M/M, Mostly a Good Day, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Somehow this became a story about social anxiety also, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 16:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14168895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterq/pseuds/monsterq
Summary: Steve is at a fundraiser, so Bucky attends Avengers team-bonding day alone.





	go down to the netherworld; plant grapes

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place when Thanos has been defeated and everyone is alive and okay, thank you very much. And no one is a fugitive, because they saved the world or something.

Bucky wakes up from a dream full of grasping hands and disconnected colors, a cacophony of screams, with his throat tight and his breath short. His jaw is clenched so hard it aches. Same old.  
  
He lies still and lets the memories rain back into him, all out of order before they slot into place. He keeps his arms still at his sides as if he’ll fall if he moves too much while it happens. When he opens his eyes, he knows what day it is, and he fights the urge to retreat back into the blankets. 

Today, Steve is attending a fundraising art show for disenfranchised youth, and Bucky is attending Avengers team-bonding day alone.  
  
The timing is good, actually. It hasn’t been too long since he was going days without sleeping, pacing all through the night checking windows and doors, staring for hours at nothing at all. It hasn’t been too long since the panic attacks were happening every day, sometimes every hour, violent ones where he lashed out or quiet ones where he hurt himself or, more often, both. Now he only gets one a week if he’s lucky. The nightmares, though—those are still every night.  
  
He rolls over, finally, and looks at Steve, the way the dim morning coming through the shades falls over his skin in blocks and slats of light. His white t-shirt is wrinkled. One sleeve has ridden up to his shoulder, exposing a faint constellation of freckles on his upper arm.  
  
There’s something grounding in the solidity of Steve’s body; there always is. Even without touching him, Bucky can feel the way the mattress by Steve slopes down into his weight. His wide shoulders and strong arms are so undeniably present that Bucky feels something settle in himself just by looking.  
  
It’s strange—even when he was small, Steve had that presence to him. Not that physicality, but a presence as intense as a star trapped inside his tiny body. Bucky’s eyes always felt dragged to him as if by a gravitational force, no matter what or who else was in the room.  
  
His own body is different, at least now. He can’t really remember what it felt like to exist in his body before everything happened, but occasionally he gets flashes, sense memories—a smile that sits easily on a face, his face, his shoulders swinging through the crowd, every part filled up to the brim with him—with Bucky. Now, though, he exists with his body in a strange, awkward truce. Every day is a struggle to claim this flesh as his. Most of the time, the best he can say is that it feels like a tool. That was how he knew it for so long, and it’s better, anyway, than the days it feels like a prison instead. His therapist works with him on grounding exercises, on reclaiming. She says she’s proud of how far he’s come.  
  
Steve’s eyes open as Bucky looks at him. Just a little, just enough to peer at Bucky through his pale lashes. A smile touches his lips. He closes his eyes again and stretches under the blanket. Yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth. “Hey,” he mutters.  
  
“Hey,” Bucky says back. On impulse, he leans over to kiss the side of Steve’s sleepy mouth.  
  
*

  
After they’ve gotten up, words start to come.  
  
“Are you sure about this, Buck?” Steve asks as he puts away the dishes. He’s got his worried face on, the painfully sincere one. It makes something in Bucky ache. “Really, I’m sure we can reschedule. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”  
  
Bucky smiles at Steve; he knows it’s strained, but it’s an effort. “It’s okay. I’m going to do it. I can do this.”  
  
Steve nods. “It’s your call. Look, text me any time, all right? I might not get back to you right away, but I’ll be there.”  
  
“I know,” Bucky says, and he kisses him. Stubble scratches against his cheek. “Go on. Get dressed.”  
  
Bucky stays at the kitchen table a little longer, watching through the bedroom door as Steve puts on his suit. A formal suit this time, not the other kind. It’s a slim-waisted number, sleek and dark. Shameless, Bucky lets his eyes wander over Steve’s body as Steve buttons himself up, and when Steve catches his eye, he just grins.  
  
Steve smiles back, the lines of his face relaxing for a moment. “I’ll see you tonight,” he says. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Still lounging in his chair, he watches until the door closes behind Steve, and then he allows himself a moment to close his eyes, take a deep breath, and prepare himself.  
  
*  
  
Bucky decides to walk to the complex. It’s more than a few blocks, but it gives him time to think. And time to procrastinate, if he’s honest with himself. But the light breeze in his hair and against his skin makes him feel more present, and the voices and hum of traffic give him time to transition from the quiet, close safety of home to the world that other people live in.  
  
He keeps his hands in his pockets, the metal fingers of his left tugging restlessly at a loose thread in the pocket’s seam. No one looks at him, but he keeps his head down all the same. He tries to ignore the voices in his mind that catalogue the best and safest ways to kill the people around him or that speculate whether any of them knows any of the hundreds of people he has killed. It’s so easy to overlay this scene with one of violence and terror—or easier yet, the moment before violence, so familiar it’s like a taste that never leaves his mouth. If these people knew what he was, what would they do? There are so many possibilities. He knows because sometimes he can’t stop thinking about them.  
  
He has scripts to deal with these kinds of thoughts, but right now he can’t remember them.  
  
The door to the new Avengers facility opens to him, and he enters. He never quite gets over the feeling that this time someone will identify and deal with the danger, that he’ll be captured or shot where he stands. But the security guards in the lobby only nod at him, and his footsteps in his favorite heavy boots are all he hears as he walks down the hall.  
  
The others will probably be in the common room. He could ask, but anxiety is already closing his throat, and he’d rather put off socializing for as long as possible.  
  
It’s not very long. His legs take him down the hall, around a corner, and into the main room, which is full of people who turn to look at him.  
  
The energy shifts to something more complicated than it was, darker. Or maybe he’s imagining it. He glues his eyes to his muddy boots and clenches his fists in his pockets. _You should say hi_ , says a voice in his head that sounds a lot like Steve. He tries to make something happen in his throat, but it doesn’t work. He tries again; all that comes out is a low grunt. _Wow, good going, Bucky._ That voice is his own.  
  
“Hey, Bucky,” says someone. It’s Bruce, of all people. Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever even had a conversation with him, but maybe that’s for the best. And Bruce has kind eyes. He flicks his own up to meet them for a second. Bruce is looking at him, some kind of understanding in his face, an understanding that demands nothing.  
  
“Hi,” he says. It comes out a whisper.  
  
Natasha nods at him. “Barnes. Good to see you.”  
  
He wonders if it is. She’s hard to read. She doesn’t seem to hold a grudge, even though she should, but he’s not certain. He nods back at her.  
  
He walks further into the room. Clint’s with Natasha, perched on the back of the couch she’s sitting on, fiddling with a bit of string. “Hey,” he says, looking at Bucky and then away. Wanda is in another corner with Vision, bent over a StarkPad; she smiles uncertainly at him, and Vision says, “Hello, Sergeant Barnes.” Scott waves, playing with his phone, and Tony doesn’t look up from his conversation with Rhodey, though his shoulders tense a little. Rhodey nods at him too.  
  
Bucky doesn’t see Thor or Loki. He remembers Steve telling him that Loki and maybe Thor too would be absent, off doing something with the Asgardian refugees, which is probably for the best. Loki may be on their side now, whatever that means, but Bucky still finds him a little unnerving. It’s probably better not to add that element to an already tense situation. The kid, Spider-Man, is gone too—probably doing homework. T’challa came once when he was in the country, but he’s not here now.  
  
Should he sit down somewhere? He’s been to team days a couple times before, but always with Steve as a buffer, where it’s easy to simply shadow him and stay silent. Sometimes there are activities planned, but not today. It’s supposed to be loose, relaxed, an opportunity to just hang out in each other’s company, do whatever they want, and maybe learn to be comfortable with each other—again or for the first time. It’s a tall order, in Bucky’s opinion. But Steve so badly wants him to make more friends, to be part of the other parts of his life, even if he’d never push him about it, and Bucky…in a complicated way, Bucky wants that too. He wants to try. He just wishes he were better at it.  
  
“Hey,” says a voice, and his head snaps up. Natasha raises her eyebrows at him. “Come on.” Patting the couch next to her, she says, “Come sit down. Unless you’d rather stand around forever.” She shrugs. “You can do that if you want.”  
  
Bucky walks over to her and sits on the part of the couch free of Natasha as well as Clint’s legs. He stares at his hands, fingers intertwined, metal against flesh, and tries to think of something to say.  
  
“You have any plans for today? Anything you want to do?” Natasha asks.  
  
Bucky shakes his head. After a moment, he remembers to ask, “Do you?”  
  
She shrugs. “I wanted to take advantage of Stark’s videogame collections. And his movies. Are you interested?”  
  
The words get stuck. He doesn’t know how to answer. Is he interested? He has no idea. All that exists is this moment and the buzzing anxiety in his skull.  
  
“They’re good collections.” It’s Clint’s voice. Bucky doesn’t look up to his face, but he sees his legs swing a little, heels tapping the cushions. His voice is carefully casual, but Bucky can hear the uncertainty beneath it. “All the new games, all the classics, every movie you could ever want to see. I already challenged Nat to Super Mario, but after that, there’s room on the couch for you.”  
  
“Steve said he liked that game. When he played it.” His voice comes out rough, uneven, maybe childish.  
  
“The man has good taste,” says Clint. “How’s he doing?”  
  
“Okay,” Bucky says.  
  
“He’s at that charity gig for kids, right?” Natasha asks.  
  
Bucky nods. He wonders if Steve has arrived yet, what he’s doing.  
  
“So are you an Avenger yet?” Natasha asks.  
  
Bucky glances at her. He’s sure she knows; she’s not the sort of person to let vital intelligence pass her by. But her face doesn’t look like she’s laughing at him or trying to trick him. “Not really,” he says. “Sort of. I guess I’m on retainer. I might help out if I’m really needed, but I’m not officially on the team.”  
  
“Why not?” Natasha asks. “I know for a fact you’ve been invited.”  
  
Bucky shrugs uncomfortably. He doesn’t really believe they want him there, or that the world wants him there, and even if they do—he’s not sure _he_ wants it. When he thinks about it, it stirs up a mess of emotions he can’t even begin to sort through.  
  
“We could use you,” Clint comments. “Did you catch that mess two weeks ago? Giant mutant bugs with teeth growing out of their eyeballs, plus when you killed them—” He shudders dramatically. “—the mess, oh god, the mess. I was picking liquefied guts out of my hair for days.”  
  
“That’s not really an incentive,” Bucky points out.  
  
“He’s not wrong, though,” says Bruce. He’s come close enough to listen, and when Bucky looks at him, he pulls a wry face. “Even the Hulk thought they were too squishy.” Bruce shrugs. “You know, sometimes it feels like things are just getting weirder and weirder, like evil doesn’t want to bore us or something. Last month, there was that wizard with the snakes inside him, and before that, the sentient flower trolls.” He pauses and lowers himself to sit on the couch, on Bucky’s other side. “He’s not wrong about the other thing either. The team really could use you.”  
  
Bucky tries to smile. With someone on either side of him, he feels boxed in, twitchy. He tries to ignore it, crossing and uncrossing his legs. “I’ll. I’ll think about that.”  
  
“Cool,” Clint says. He swings his legs some more and looks around the room. Natasha touches his foot with no apparent purpose and looks again at Bucky, her gaze evaluating; Bucky drops his gaze to his lap, chewing his tongue and trying to resist the urge to run.  
  
Bruce shifts beside him. Bucky can feel slight anxiety in his body, though he’s trying to hide it. Maybe on another day it’d feel like company, but right now, it just puts him more on edge. He fingers the flat shape of his phone in his pocket, wondering if Steve has texted yet, if it would be cowardly to pull it out and look.  
  
The table’s in front of him, the couch behind. Natasha on one side and Bruce on the other. From here, he can’t see the door. Any of the people in this room would be dangerous in a fight, if they wanted to take him down. And if they were working together _—but they’re not going to. They’re Steve’s friends. They won’t_ —if they wanted to take him down, take him back, he probably wouldn’t be able to stop them. _There’s nowhere to take you back to, and why would they want to, anyway?_ But he doesn’t know, he can’t ever know, and besides, there will always be somewhere that would have him, people who would give a lot to take him and break him and make him into what they need, or—  
  
It’s too hot in here. He’s sweating. He tries to keep his breath even and slow, but the bodies around him are flickering in his mind, overlapping with armed men standing too close on every side, a crowd about to start screaming, limp corpses surrounding him in tangled heaps. They’re all bleeding into each other, memories and past and present and maybe future, and when he blinks, still staring at his lap, he sees as if from far away that the nails of his right hand are cutting white crescents into his palm.  
  
“Hey,” Bruce says. “Are you all right?”  
  
He can’t answer.  
  
“Oh. Uh. Do you need anything?” That’s Clint, he thinks. He tries to look up at him, to see his face, but it’s like looking through fogged-up glass. Clint says something about breathing. He tries. Maybe if he could tell them to move further away—but he can’t. It’s getting hard to even remember that’s a possibility. He concentrates, clinging to the world, to the here and now, trying to find something to grasp. There are exercises he’s supposed to do, but he can’t think of them.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees someone gesture in conversation, and he loses control.  
  
It’s like something his handler used to do. He’d snap his fingers, point at the ground. It meant _get over here and do what I say_ , and sometimes it meant _kneel_ , and the asset’s on his feet before he knows what’s happening, his heart slamming in his ears and his brain very blank and far away. Something is wrong, but he can’t remember what. He needs to obey; there is no other choice.  
  
He catches himself halfway across the room.  
  
For a second he’s caught between sinking to his knees and vomiting and running. Running wins.  
  
He lurches out the door, trying not to see everyone staring. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he’s going there fast. Up the hallway, around the corner, through a door, through another door, and finally he sinks to the floor of a dark room, arms wrapped around his legs, face pressed into his knees.  
  
He’s breathing in gasps like he just ran miles, not a hundred yards. At least here there’s no one to see him, no one to see how pathetic he is, no one to see how easy he makes it to use him, how easy it would be to do whatever they wanted. No one to see how easily they could make him hurt people. No one to hurt or to hurt him.  
  
“Sergeant Barnes?” says Friday from the ceiling. “Do you need assistance? Is there something I can do?”  
  
Bucky shakes his head into his knees.  
  
He stays there, hunched in the dark, trying to will his pounding heart to slow. He presses his toes into the lining of his boots, his fingers into the fabric of his jeans, trying to anchor himself to the present firmly enough that he believes it. Maybe if he tries hard enough, it’ll never escape him again.  
  
He feels the presence in the doorway like an electric shock. Raising his head, trying to subtly scrub the tears from his face onto his jeans in the process, he sees Wanda.  
  
“Hello,” she says quietly.  
  
“Hi,” he manages. Christ, his voice is a mess. _Pull yourself together._ But he can’t.  
  
Wanda hesitates there, fidgeting a little. “Is it okay if I come in?” she asks finally.  
  
He takes a breath, then another, and finally nods.  
  
She crosses the space between them in nervous steps and sinks down to sit beside him. For a moment she doesn’t speak, and Bucky listens to her breathing, feeling the static of her body a foot from his. Finally, she says, “Would you like to talk about it?”  
  
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know much of anything. He shrugs.  
  
She hisses out a sigh through her teeth, but the noise doesn’t sound like she’s angry at him. After a few seconds, she says, “It happens to me sometimes too. Not so much anymore. But sometimes. All the moments of time fall together and fall on me, and I can’t breathe from the fear or the grief. Or the shame or the guilt.”  
  
Wanda looks at his face as if reading the expression. Bucky doesn’t know what she finds there, but she glances down at the floor. Then, tentatively, she touches his arm, just a brief contact, telegraphed so he can see it coming. Her hand is small and a little cold, even through the fabric of his sleeve.  
  
He gathers his thoughts and shapes them slowly into words. It’s hard, but his breath is slowing, and the world is starting to lock back into place in the dim light and the quiet. Somehow, her presence next to him doesn’t overwhelm him the way the others did a few minutes ago. “I wish I had more control,” he says. “Sometimes it seems like I don’t have any. But maybe I would mess everything up even if I did.” He pauses. “Other times I wish…I wish I couldn’t remember some things. Even though I fought so hard to be able to remember things at all.”  
  
She nods. The silence settles like dust. Then he says, “I’m sorry you…you too. I don’t think you deserve it. To feel like that.”  
  
Wanda smiles at him, a sad kind of smile. “Neither do you.”  
  
Bucky doesn’t know about that, but she sounds sure. Just like Steve does when he says the same thing.  
  
They sit for a few minutes longer, and when Bucky feels ready to get up, he says, “Thanks.”  
  
“Any time,” she says. “I mean that. I would like to be your friend.”  
  
He looks at her. She doesn’t seem to be joking or lying. “I’d like that,” he says.  
  
She smiles. They walk back down the hall. When they near the common room, Bucky hesitates, looking at the floor.  
  
Wanda hesitates too; then she nods at him and enters the room.  
  
Bucky looks up, and his eyes catch Sam’s, who’s looking at him. Sam bites his lip and then stands, coming over to him. “Hey, man. You all right?”  
  
Bucky nods.  
  
“Look…” Sam hesitates, hands in his pockets. “I know we don’t really get along. I guess we didn’t have a great start. But…I don’t hate you, you know? I don’t want…anyway, is there anything you wanted to do today? Anywhere you want to go?”  
  
Bucky stares at him. He shrugs, unsure what’s happening.  
  
Sam sighs. “Do you wanna come sit down? We could hang out, play a game, whatever. Or I can leave you alone, if you want.”  
  
Bucky looks over Sam’s shoulder at the room. It looks crowded. He fidgets.  
  
Sam follows his gaze, his eyes shrewd. “On the other hand…do you like dogs?”  
  
Bucky stares at him again. “I—dogs?”  
  
“Dogs,” Sam agrees. “Do you like them?”  
  
“Yes,” says Bucky, though he has no idea why Sam’s asking. He does. Blurrily, he remembers the street dog he used to feed as a kid, a blond mutt that slunk around alleyways and watched Bucky with nervous eyes and sighed in happiness when Bucky scratched his ears. Even more distorted, the memory scratched and distant, he remembers a dog that followed him on a mission one night, somewhere in South America. She kept her distance, and he ignored her as he tracked his target and assembled his rifle, but she stayed nearby, panting in the sunless heat and observing his movements, until the gunshot frightened her off.  
  
“Cool,” says Sam, smiling now. “Let’s go.” He walks out of the room and starts down the hall. Bucky watches uncertainly. Looking back, Sam tips his head. “You coming?”  
  
Bucky’s legs start moving without his telling them to. “But where?”  
  
“Outside,” Sam says. “Near the other entrance. They’re doing an adoption drive.”  
  
“Adoption?” Bucky asks, feeling like an idiot.  
  
“For dogs,” Sam says. “It’s a shelter. The local animal shelter asked Stark if they could hold it on the property, ‘cause of the extra space and the publicity, and he was all for it. They should be finished setting up now.”  
  
Sam pushes open the exit before Bucky can really process that, and they’re outside in the cool air. He listens and hears the shuffle of bodies and voices, as well as some voices that aren’t so human. “But I can’t adopt,” he says. Can he?  
  
Sam just shakes his head, though. “You don’t have to. We can just go meet them, pet them. That’s what I was thinking.”  
  
They round the corner, and there they are—clumps of tables and portable fences and people holding dogs on leashes. The dogs are a mixed bunch, big and small, spotted and mottled, missing an eye or a leg, their tongues hanging out in excitement as they strain at their leashes to investigate their surroundings. The humans are a mixed bunch too. Bucky feels himself tense at the prospect of mingling with strangers. He takes a deep breath, calming himself. “You good?” Sam asks. Bucky nods and moves forward before he can psych himself out.  
  
The people smile at them as they approach, some waving or calling out greetings. Bucky wonders if they know who he is. They don’t seem afraid of him at all. He nods in response to their greetings and focuses on the dogs, though part of his brain, as always, can’t help cataloging the humans’ positions, body language, threat level. He ignores it as best he can. Beside him, Sam is smiling and responding to people in kind with an ease Bucky envies.  
  
Bucky reaches out his flesh hand to a dog to make his brain stop thinking. The dog, a big mutt with shaggy black and white fur and one pale eye—the other is missing—sniffs at his fingers and wags her tail. He crouches, acknowledging the handler with a nod, and runs his hands through the dog’s thick fur. Unperturbed by the sensation of his left hand, she licks his chin. When he strokes her from shoulder to rump and then scratches her cheek, she wiggles in pleasure.  
  
“Her name’s Daisy,” says the handler, a tall young woman with brown skin and a pierced nose. “She’s two. She’s a sweetie, isn’t she?”  
  
Bucky nods. His mouth is doing something that isn’t quite a smile but isn’t not, either. Daisy presses her head against his shoulder, and he rubs her ears.  
  
“Hey, man.” Sam is behind him. “I met a dog too. Want to come say hi?”  
  
“Okay.” Bucky says bye to Daisy, stroking her soft neck, and stands, following Sam to another handler and another dog.  
  
“This is Pineapple,” Sam says. Pineapple is a smaller dog with brindled, tawny fur and a wide, panting smile. Bucky offers his hand, and Pineapple sniffs it cautiously, then redirects his smile to Bucky. Bucky crouches again to pet him.  
  
He and Sam wander through the crowd, petting dogs, Sam chatting with the people. After a while, Sam’s relaxed posture and easy demeanor begin to rub off on Bucky—he’s not calm, exactly, but he’s no longer on the edge of panic. Sam really seems comfortable, like he’s not angry at Bucky or afraid of him or disgusted. Bucky guesses it’s been a while since those first meetings, which weren’t exactly in the best of circumstances. Still, he’s not sure what he’s done in the meantime to make Sam want to be nice to him.  
  
Bucky meets Nicky, a young pit bull with a scar on his face. Sandwich, an anxious, elderly cream labradoodle. Elsa, a three-legged German shepherd mix. Other people have arrived by then, prospective adopters, parents with children and young adults and old men and women. Their proximity makes Bucky itch, and part of him still notices when any of them look at him, but he stays for a while longer. When he looks over, Sam is taking a selfie with a teenager, and someone else is waiting nearby.  
  
They meet up again when they’re ready to go. “You good?” Sam asks.  
  
“Yeah,” Bucky says, and for once it seems true. He feels settled, somehow, anchored in his skin, but not in a way that hurts.  
  
“Did you ever have a dog?” Sam asks as they walk away.  
  
Bucky shakes his head. When he grew up in New York, they didn’t have the space for a dog, and they didn’t have the money either. “Did you?”  
  
“Yeah, I did,” Sam says, smiling. “Grew up with a border collie and an Australian shepherd. Man, they had energy. I haven’t had one since, but after I left active service, I used to come to shelter events just to meet the dogs like this. Sometimes that’s the only time I’d leave the house all day. I love people, but there were times I just—couldn’t, you know? But dogs are different.” His eyes are distant for a moment; then he shrugs. “I’d like to have a dog again someday, but I don’t know when I’ll have the time. Though…” He looks back at the tangle of dogs and humans thoughtfully.  
  
Bucky looks too. It’s stupid to consider it, right? A dog deserves better than what he can give it. But then, it wouldn’t be only him. He thinks about it. Part of him recoils against the idea of asking for anything, but that’s a part of him he’s been working on. It’s hard, but he’s getting better at it.

 

“I’m sorry I ripped your wings off,” he says suddenly.

 

Sam looks surprised. “Hey, it’s all right. I mean, it was a major bummer, and yeah, I was pretty freaked at the time. But it’d be a hell of a thing to hold it against you.” He pauses when they reach the door, pressing his hand to the sensor. “You know,” he says, “you could come if you wanted to one of my meetings. For vets. You wouldn’t have to commit to anything. Just sit in and try it.”  
  
Bucky sneaks a glance at him. “Really?”  
  
“Yeah, really. I don’t hate you, Bucky. I swear.”  
  
“Oh,” Bucky says, but it comes out mostly air. Halfway down the hall, he manages, “Thanks.”  
  
“Anytime, man.”  
  
When they get back to the common room, it’s nearly empty; most people have wandered off to other parts of the compound. The only ones remaining are Bruce, reading a book, who waves at him, and Tony, fiddling with his phone in the corner.  
  
Tony looks up and sees him. Then he looks away for a second, but to Bucky’s surprise, he meets his eye again and says, “Hey, Robocop. Can I talk to you for a minute?”  
  
Bucky’s heart speeds up. He scans Tony’s face for danger. “Okay,” he says.  
  
Sam looks between them, evaluating, and walks away.  
  
Tony gestures at the chair beside him, and Bucky makes himself walk over and sit down. Oddly, Tony seems nervous too, but not like he’s afraid of him. He keeps fiddling with his phone, tapping the fingers of his other hand on his leg, and avoiding eye contact.  
  
Bucky shifts. Tony puts his phone down and turns toward him, though he still has a hard time looking at Bucky’s face. Bucky’s heart is pounding, and he can’t stop remembering Tony’s face when he found out what Bucky had done. Remembering the feeling of Maria Stark’s windpipe giving way beneath his flesh fingers. The sweat on her skin, her pulse fluttering until it didn’t.  
  
“Look,” Tony says. “I—you—look, I just, uh…” He curses and starts over. “A lot’s happened. Between us, between everyone, in general. Now we’re practically neighbors, almost coworkers, and I guess I’ve been avoiding you. Well, I know I have. I kind of told myself it was for your sake too, that it’s not like you’d want to hang out with me after what I did. I mean, hell, I don’t want to hang out with me half the time. But that’s not the point.”  
  
Where is this going? Bucky has extensive training in evaluating body language and other cues, but he has blind spots—that, if nothing else, has become excruciatingly obvious to him in the years away from Hydra. Blind spots bigger than most people’s, like in some ways his training made him worse at this instead of better. He doesn’t think Tony’s about to attack him, but beyond that, he’s not sure. He looks away and focuses on controlling his breathing.  
  
“The point is, I was wrong,” Tony says. “I was lying to myself. About my reasons, anyway. And I try not to do that anymore. There’s a lot to regret that comes from that kind of thing. No, I was avoiding you because I felt like shit and I didn’t want to deal with it, or I didn’t know how, or both. So—here I am, and here you are, and I just want to say—I’m sorry.”  
  
Bucky’s head jerks up from his lap. He stares at Tony. Sorry?  
  
“I fucked up,” Tony says, “and I hurt you. I lost control, let my feelings take over, and you paid for it. And you didn’t deserve that. I know that, if I’d been thinking rationally for even a second I’d have known that then, and I sure as hell hope _you_ know that. You do have the Capsicle to remind you, so maybe you do. What you did, what they made you do, it wasn’t your fault, and you didn’t deserve—any of this, including what I did. So…that’s it. I’m sorry.”  
  
Bucky stares at Tony’s face, the way he chews his lip and the expressions that flash across it too fast to follow, and tries to make words. His heart is still pounding.  
  
“You going to say something?” Tony asks anxiously. “Should I keep talking? Or leave? I can leave. Should I shut up? I don’t know what you want—can you give me something here, big guy?”  
  
“Um,” Bucky says. “I—I, uh, thanks.”  
  
“Oh!” Tony says. “Great! You’re welcome. Not that I really did anything.”  
  
Bucky shakes his head. “Thanks,” he says again. “I…appreciate your apology.”  
  
“Cool,” says Tony. “Because that’s still something I’m working on, apologies. So, success, awesome. Go team. Are we good, then?”  
  
Bucky nods.  
  
“Great. Great! Wow, that went better than I thought. So, you have any plans for the rest of the day?”  
  
People keep asking him that. Maybe he should come up with some. “Not really.”  
  
“You want to see my lab? You can meet my robots. You like robots? I feel like you would.”  
  
Bucky blinks. “Sure.”  
  
“Cool. Not much for talking, are you? That’s all right. I can talk enough for both of us. Unless that bugs you, in which case I can try to shut up, though, fair warning, I’m not very good at it.” He looks at Bucky as he leads them out of the room, eyebrows raised, and Bucky shrugs.  
  
They take the elevator to the basement level, Tony chattering the whole way. It’s not irritating—more like a hum of background noise, almost comforting. When the elevator doors open, it’s to a hallway and a wall of bulletproof glass, a door set in the middle. Tony presses his palm to a sensor, and the door clicks open, though Bucky suspects there’s more to the locking mechanism than that. He leads Bucky inside.  
  
They’re met by counters cluttered with tools and half-completed projects, whirring machines, the smell of sparks and grease, and a small herd of robots speeding across the floor to greet them. Tony laughs and reaches out to touch them. “Hey, guys.” He turns to Bucky and gestures at the robots. “This is Dum-E, this is Butterfingers, and this is U. Guys, this is Bucky. Oh, and I know you met Friday already, but she can be a little shy.”

 

“I’m not shy,” comes Friday’s voice from the ceiling. “Simply reserved. Hello.”  
  
Bucky waves cautiously. The metal contraptions, just arms on wheels, look nothing like humans, but Tony introduces them like people, and as the lab door closes behind them, Tony goes on talking to the robots and Bucky and Friday, casual and conversational, snark belying the affection in his voice. Friday’s voice, when she responds, holds just as much snark and just as much affection. For their part, the robots circle around them and tilt their claws almost like heads and manage somehow to whir happily. Bucky finds himself smiling. He’s always been interested in robots; he remembers lying in his childhood bedroom and reading science fiction with a flashlight under the covers so his ma wouldn’t come rapping at his door, admonishing that he had school tomorrow. Now, after Hydra, he feels a strange affinity with them, one way or another.  
  
“Hi,” he says when Tony’s gone quiet, having wandered off to examine a project involving molded metal and a lot of exposed wires on one of the counters. “Um, nice to meet you.”  
  
One of them—Dum-E—chirps at him. It cocks its head—its hand—extending the arm to get a better look at his prosthetic.  
  
“Oh! Yeah, I have a robot arm too.” He pushes up his sleeve and waves it at them; they crowd closer in fascination. When Bucky looks up, Tony is leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching. He’s smiling.  
  
They stay down there for about forty-five minutes. The robots examine Bucky’s arm with great interest and, politely, he examines theirs back. Tony tells him about the projects he’s working on, and Bucky asks questions. When Tony shows him his newest work, he seems nervous, and Bucky knows why; it’s a show of trust, allowing him this close. He values that, and more, he’s genuinely interested. Maybe if he asks, he can learn more about robotics. Could he take a class? The idea appeals to him.  
  
When they go back upstairs into the common room, evening is beginning to fall. Through the wide windows, the sun is resting low against the horizon, the sky stained with pink and orange streaks. The room is full again; Avengers are clumped on couches and chairs, and they smile at Bucky and Tony when they enter.  
  
“Excellent timing,” says Vision. “We were just considering whether to continue playing videogames or to choose a movie. Do you have an opinion?”  
  
To Bucky’s surprise, the question is directed at him. He scans their faces. They seem to really want to know, like they’d be happy with any answer, like his opinion could make their decision. It’d be easy to say he doesn’t care, to let them choose. But… “Um,” he says. “A movie sounds nice. Maybe…games next time? When Steve is here? We could all play.” He feels tired, drained; he doesn’t think he’s up for competition just yet. But later—he could enjoy that.  
  
Clint grins; Natasha nods in approval. “Sounds good.”

 

“Cool. Movie it is,” says Rhodey, looking pleased. He looks at everyone. “Movie? Movie? Yeah, movie. All right, what are we going to watch?”  
  
Bucky finds a seat with Bruce and Wanda. He lets himself take off his shoes, pull his feet up onto the couch, and hug his knees as he watches everyone haggle. Normally he’d control the vulnerability in that kind of posture, but right now, he doesn’t feel like he has to.  
  
They settle on _Spirited Away_. Bucky’s seen it before, but so have the rest of them. He likes it better that way; he doesn’t have to worry about surprises. He can just enjoy it. As they’re starting it up, Tony disappears for a few minutes and comes back with four huge bowls of popcorn, which they distribute between the couches and chairs. Then they watch the big TV, the lights dim, everyone quiet except for the occasional shuffles and whispers. Even Tony. Bucky licks butter off his fingers, searches his shirt for a stray kernel, and doesn’t feel scared at all.  
  
Ninety minutes later, when the bowls are empty except for scattered unpopped kernels, footsteps sound down the hall and Steve appears in the doorway. A few people wave at him; he smiles, looking at the screen, and whispers, “Sorry I couldn’t get here earlier.” He walks over to Bucky. Bucky holds out his hand, and Steve reaches out to touch it. His hand is warm.  
  
“Here,” Bucky whispers, and he scoots sideways so there’s room on the couch between him and Bruce. He tugs Steve down next to him, and Steve comes willingly, snatching a blanket from the back as he sits. He spreads it out across them, and Bucky tucks his feet in. He leans his head on Steve’s shoulder and sighs.  
  
“How’d it go?” Steve whispers into Bucky’s hair.  
  
“Pretty good, I think,” Bucky whispers back. “I’ll tell you about it later.” Maybe he’ll tell Steve about the dogs too. “How’d yours go?”  
  
“Good. I’ll tell you about it.”  
  
“Shh,” someone says.  
  
They shh. Steve’s hand comes up to stroke through Bucky’s hair, and Bucky closes his eyes for a moment to enjoy the sensation, still listening to the movie. His heart beats slow and even, and he can hear the small movements of the others in the room. Someone shifts and settles, sighing. Bucky reaches out for Steve’s other hand and twines their fingers together underneath the blanket.


End file.
